


Mission ID: CH041

by so_shhy



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Christmas, Crack, Fluff, Get Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:11:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_shhy/pseuds/so_shhy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Phil and Clint uncover a nefarious HYDRA plot, Fury has no patience with fireplaces, and a very special day needs to be saved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mission ID: CH041

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Feelstide prompt 16
> 
> A million thanks to [Tawabids](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tawabids) for the fantastic beta. Also for the ending!

‘We were supposed to be back in time for Christmas,’ Clint was saying. ‘But there’s always something, right?’

It wasn’t the most encouraging sentence Phil had ever woken up to. Waking up on a floor wasn’t usually a good thing either. On the plus side, there was no gunfire, and he could feel all his limbs. He managed a groan and peeled open one eye.

Instantly Clint was crouching over him, alert and concerned. ‘Sir. Sir. Phil. You with me?’

‘Unfortunately,’ Phil grumbled. When he could see reasonably straight again he pushed himself up onto one elbow. ‘Where are we, and why am I waking up on a fuzzy green carpet?’ It was a nice carpet, actually, deep pile with lighter flecks that looked a little like pine needles. Not the sort you usually found in terrorist prison cells. Another mark in the plus column.

‘Huh,’ Clint said worriedly. He peered deep into Phil’s eyes. Phil gazed back, momentarily distracted. ‘Do you remember what just happened?’

‘We were in Kazakhstan,’ Phil said, grasping for the last memory he was sure of. ‘There was a mission to take down a terrorist cell. We almost had one of them but he made us and rabbited. Did we go after him?’

‘Yeah,’ Clint said, looking relieved, which was sweet of him, Phil thought muzzily. ‘Tracked him to a little airfield outside of Kostanay. We caught up with them just before they took off.’

‘Alright. And then what happened?’

Clint ducked his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. ‘You remember that time in Kabul?’

Phil nodded, and then had to blink away the spots that danced briefly in front of his eyes. ‘You mean the time when I emphatically told you not to stow away on an aircraft as it was starting down the runway, and you did it anyway?’

‘Yeah, that time. This was kind of like that.’

‘Kind of?’

‘Exactly like that,’ Clint said, having the grace to look a little sheepish. ‘I guess I didn’t think it through so well. Didn’t expect you to follow me.’

Groaning inwardly, Phil rubbed at his forehead as the memories crowded in. He could see the plane beginning to move and Clint breaking into a run, and he could remember swearing and chasing after him as the cargo bay doors began to close. Kabul was not going to happen again. When they’d recovered Clint after that op Phil hadn’t even had the satisfaction of yelling at him. He’d sat beside the hospital bed instead, catching up on work, and every now and then allowing himself a shameful moment to hold Clint’s hand as he slept. ‘It’s my job to follow you,’ he said. ‘You’re an idiot, but I’d quite like to keep you in one piece. Did I hit my head?’

‘No. There was some… sparkly dust.’

‘Sparkly dust,’ Phil echoed flatly, hoping that if he waited and glared for long enough his asset might manage to say something actually informative.

‘Yeah.’ Clint made a rough, expansive gesture at their surroundings. ‘Weirdly enough, it kind of makes sense in context.’

With a little help, Phil managed to drag himself into a sitting position. Thankfully his head seemed to have stopped spinning. Less thankfully, he began to take in some disturbing details of the little storage room they were in. For example, the candycane-striped walls and the frankly intimidating pile of presents stacked floor to ceiling in one corner. And the bizarre sense that, although the room was silent, someone, somewhere was playing Jingle Bells. ‘Some context would be nice right now,’ he admitted. ‘Can you give me a sitrep?’

Clint shrugged. ‘I would,’ he said ruefully, ‘but I’m pretty sure you’re not gonna believe me.’

***

‘What?’ at least half of the Avengers said, in voices ranging from concern to angry disbelief.

On the viewscreen, Fury’s face remained unimpressed by their outrage. ‘I said,’ he repeated, ‘six hours ago Barton and Coulson missed their scheduled check-in.’

‘You’re only telling us this _now_?’ Tony snarled.

Thor hefted his hammer. ‘We must go to their aid!’

 _Some Christmas present_ , Steve thought. Thank you, SHIELD.

He found himself as worried as he would have been about any of the howling commandos. The team hadn’t been together long, but since Agent Coulson’s recovery it had begun to mesh. He kept them all grounded. As for Clint, he had a motormouth that rivalled Tony’s and a magical ability to be elsewhere when he was wanted for things like debriefs, drills and medical check-ups. But, despite having gone through something close to hell when Loki attacked, he was someone who could make any of them laugh. Even Natasha, and that was saying something.

‘You should have told us,’ he said to Fury.

‘The information was need-to-know at the time,’ Fury said irritably, ‘and one missed check-in isn’t unusual. However, something has occurred since then that…’ he paused, looking slightly exasperated. ‘It changes the situation. Find Dr Banner and Agent Romanoff and report to SHIELD Central. There’s something your team should see.’

***

Steve walked into Fury’s office prepared to express his annoyance in a business-like and professional way, and then sit back and watch Tony yell. But as soon as he walked through the door he frowned. Something was strange about the room. It took a moment for him to place it, since he had been overwhelmed these past two months by the wealth of Christmas-related signs, sales, decorations and music in this century that seemed to take the holiday and flog it to within an inch of its life. But he knew the general atmosphere had yet to permeate the office of the Director of SHIELD.

Until today. Now it seemed Fury’s austere, functional workspace boasted a flickering open fire in a charming brick fireplace with a candy cane motif on the surround. Dangling from the mantel was a large black Christmas stocking with a brown furry trim.

‘Is something different in here?’ Bruce asked vaguely, with his usual air of one distracted by wormhole physics. ‘Did you decorate?’

It had taken Steve a while to pick up on the streak of sadism in Bruce’s sense of humour. Even now, he couldn’t always tell which comments were absent-minded and which were deliberately infuriating. He glanced over at Tony, who was smirking. Bruce looked utterly innocent.

‘This _item_ appeared in my office out of nowhere, Doctor,’ Fury said through gritted teeth. ‘Originally we considered it a security breach. However, it seems to have delivered us a report from Agent Coulson.’

‘So we’re back in contact,’ Natasha said with a hint of relief in her voice. She took another look at the fireplace and raised an eyebrow. ‘How exactly was the message delivered?’

‘This,’ Fury said, dropping something on the desk distastefully, ‘was ejected from the chimney at speed.’

They all peered at it.

‘Your fireplace shot a Nerf dart at you,’ Natasha said. ‘Sir,’ she added, entirely straight-faced, while Thor poked at the foam dart looking mystified and Bruce hung onto Tony, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

Steve sighed. Sometimes he really did feel like a ninety-year-old man surrounded by children. ‘What did the report say?’ he asked.

Without breaking off his impressive one-eyed glare at Bruce, Fury held out a folded piece of paper. ‘See for yourself, Captain.’

Steve took it, unfolding it to find a mission report form, neatly completed. Another, shorter message was scrawled at the bottom.

***

 **Reporting agent:** Coulson, PJ  
 **Mission ID:** CH041  
 **Mission status:** Ongoing

**THIS REPORT CONTAINS CRITICAL INFORMATION. REQUEST IMMEDIATE BACKUP.**

In pursuit of target, Agent Barton and myself stowed away aboard a light aircraft nr Kostanay, Kazakhstan. I was rendered unconscious by an unknown substance for the duration of the flight. On landing, Agent Barton found us refuge in a storage area and departed to gather intel. I regained consciousness shortly after his return.

Our location is the base of operations of an organisation closely resembling popular descriptions of Santa’s team of elves. The base has been invaded and is in the possession of HYDRA forces. Currently the ‘elves’ are obedient to HYDRA due to some kind of mind control device. We have managed to briefly break the control on one elf, thereby discovering this means of communication.

We have not yet ascertained HYDRA’s intensions or our exact location, though certain evidence suggests that this may be the North Pole.

We can only hope this report reaches you safely.

I repeat, we request immediate backup.

P Coulson

 

_Tasha, we’re in Santa’s workshop, I’m not kidding, what the fuck. Phil’s being all logical about it, which is kind of dumb seeing as we’re sending you a message with a Nerf gun and some fucking pixie dust. Get your ass down here because I cannot even with this shit._

_xxC_

***

‘So, we’re going with the hypothesis that Santa is real?’ Tony said, after the mission report had been thoroughly read over by every Avenger. ‘Or are we gonna go with the plausible option and assume that Agent Coulson’s been knocking back a quart or so of Christmas cheer?’

Fury crossed his arms dangerously. ‘Stark, there is a cutesy-ass fireplace in my office, and two of my agents are missing. I do not give a damn what you hypothesise. Just get me my people back.’

‘They’re _our_ people,’ Steve snapped. ‘Of course we’ll get them back.’

‘We will vanquish this Santa,’ Thor agreed.

‘Not quite what we’re going for, big guy, but good effort,’ Tony said, patting him on the back. ‘OK, Bruce? Let’s go and track us down some agents.’

Bruce rolled his eyes. ‘You tagged them with something, didn’t you? No, why am I even asking. Of course you did.’

‘It’s like the man says,’ Tony said smugly. ‘They’re _our_ people.’

***

‘Do you think they got the message?’ Clint said, glancing back down the corridor to check for approaching elves. ‘Because we could really use some backup right now.’

Phil rounded the corner and tugged Clint into a handy alcove. Once he was confident they was no sign of hostiles he glanced at his watch. ‘Even if they did, it will take the Quinjet three or four hours to get here. And I very much doubt that they’ll leave right away. I’m expecting a certain amount of scepticism.’ Just walking down the twisty, oak-beamed corridor was enough to make him wonder about the sanity of the universe. Everything sparkled. Wreaths of evergreen and holly were spaced at intervals, and mistletoe dangled under every lampshade. Along the walls were a series of framed letters in childish handwriting, each stamped with the word “GOOD” in vivid green ink.

It would be really nice to wake up and find this was the result of too much eggnog.

‘Yeah,’ Clint said. ‘I’m seeing it and I still don’t believe it. So what’s the plan? We taking these fuckers down, or what?’

‘We don’t know what HYDRA is planning yet, so we don’t know how time-sensitive this is,’ Phil said. ‘If we’ve got time to play with, it would be better to wait for backup. We need more intel.’

‘It’s _Santa_ ,’ Clint said, in the voice that suggested he’d be rolling his eyes if he weren’t so busy using them to scan his surroundings. ‘When I think of Santa, I think of a pretty specific deadline.’

Phil nodded and took another cautious look at his watch. Christmas Eve was barely dawning in Kazakhstan, but in Fiji it was less than twelve hours until the clocks ticked round into Christmas Day.

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘New mission objectives. Discover the machine controlling the elves and disable it. Find and free Santa. Subdue HYDRA forces and dismantle their production line. And keep the Avengers informed. We can only hope our messages will get through.’

‘Understood, sir,’ Clint said. ‘Or as close as I’m gonna get to understanding any of this. Hey, Phil?’

‘Barton?’ Phil said warningly.

‘We’re standing under the mistletoe,’ Clint said, pointing upwards with his most infuriating grin.

Phil sighed. ‘So?’

‘ _Mistletoe._ ’

He was doing it to be annoying, Phil knew. Clint had always enjoyed trying to rile him, by any means necessary. It had started from their very first meeting, when Clint had point-blank refused to call him _sir._ It had been an offhand _Coulson_ , and then, as soon as he discovered the name, an insolent _Phil_. Phil had put up with that, and over the years the _sir_ had crept in. But Clint had found other ways. The constant backchat. The pranks on other agents. And these days, the flirting. It was infuriating.

Especially since Phil had basically been in love with him for five years.

None of Clint’s methods were new, but since New York he had upped the ante. It wasn’t unreasonable. He had every right to be angry, Phil supposed. Fury had lied to them and Phil, unintentionally, had given him permission to do so. So the constant pushing of personal boundaries was a punishment, if not quite the one Clint intended it to be. Since Phil got out of the hospital he’d had an extremely trying few months.

For a second, Phil’s traitorous brain let him imagine that it wasn’t a joke. _Mistletoe_ Clint would say, and reel Phil in by the tie until they were nose to nose, then lean the last few millimetres and kiss him, and it would be perfect, and… it would never happen. ‘Keep your mind on the mission, Barton.’

Clint shrugged and dropped his eyes to check his gun. When he spoke again he was thankfully all professionalism. ‘OK, Coulson. Let’s go kick some ass.’

***

‘So they’re really at the North pole,’ Tony said, staring at the blinking dot on the map.

‘Yep,’ Bruce confirmed from his own console across the lab.

‘Huh.’

Bruce tapped his screen one-handed, using the other to fend of DUM-E’s hopeful offer of coffee. ‘Are you going to explain how you’re tracking them, or should I assume you’ve been messing around with gamma rays? Because I would _not_ be happy about that.’

Steve shot a suspicious glance over at Tony. Once upon a time, he would have assumed that a genius would know better than to tag his team with monster-inducing rays. Once upon a time, he hadn’t known Tony Stark, and his life had been a whole lot simpler.

‘Love to explain it, buddy,’ Tony said blithely, ‘but it’s complicated stuff. Physics, and all. It’d take a while and we’ve got places to be.’

‘Tony…’ Bruce said warningly.

‘To the Quinjet, people! We’re heading North.’

***

From their crouched position on an empty mezzanine Phil peered down into the main workshop, where black-uniformed men and women with excellent posture shouted orders to industrious rows of elves.

‘Armour piercing rounds,’ Clint reported, jerking an elbow to the left hand side of the hall where a brightly coloured wooden machine was somehow spitting out thousands of black bullets into a hopper. ‘Old Stark tech, I think. Tony’s gonna be _pissed_.’

All the machines on that side were cranking out ammunition. It was too far for Phil to make out any details, but Clint’s eyes were rarely mistaken. ‘This makes no sense. If it’s Stark tech it’s nothing special.’

‘I’m telling him you said that.’

Phil sighed. ‘I mean it’s not magical. And hijacking Santa’s workshop to make perfectly mundane armour piercing rounds is a little elaborate, even for HYDRA.’

‘Huh,’ Clint said thoughtfully. ‘Better production speed?’

‘Possibly. But if that’s so then they’re making more than they can possibly use.’

Clint shrugged. ‘Distribution, then.’

Thinking it through, Phil realised that might be the answer. If you accepted the idea that they were in Santa’s workshop (which, to be honest, he was beginning to), you also had to accept that Santa could deliver a package to every single household in the world in a single night.

Clint, watching the realisation on his face, gave him a smug grin. ‘Admit it, sir. You love it when I’m smart.’

It was, unfortunately, quite true, but Phil didn’t let his expression flicker. ‘So we’ll wake up tomorrow and find that all the bad boys and girls got an assault rifle for Christmas,’ he said. ‘We can’t let that happen.’

Clint’s expression turned serious. He reached automatically behind him to brush his fingers over the fletchings of his arrows. ‘Why, though? What do they want?’

‘At a guess,’ Phil said grimly, ‘I’d say they want to escalate every minor conflict on the planet into an all-out bloodbath.’

Clint wrinkled up his face disapprovingly. ‘Not cool.’

‘It’s certainly not peace on Earth. Get out the fairy dust. I’m calling it in.’

***

They’d been on the Quinjet for about twenty minutes when another Nerf dart skittered out of nowhere and across the floor, until it was stopped by Natasha’s boot. Steve, who’d been leaning on the back of the pilot’s chair, spun awkwardly around to follow its path, and only supersoldier reflexes prevented him from elbowing Tony in the side of the head. He stared at the dart. Then, inexorably, he turned to survey the fireplace that now decorated the back wall.

This one was smaller than Fury’s, just right for the size of the compartment, its dancing flames casting ruddy light across the consoles. It was tiled in bright green, and a painting of a snowy landscape decorated the wall above it, the frame draped with tinsel. Hanging from the mantelpiece were five stockings in red, blue, green, black, and finally silver with little yellow lightning bolts. A sixth hook, second from the right, hung empty.

As Natasha bent to pick up the dart, Bruce approached the fireplace cautiously, reaching out to tap his knuckles on the brickwork of the chimneybreast. ‘It goes right inside the wall,’ he said wonderingly. ‘Why isn’t it affecting the wiring? There are some serious power conduits running through there. If they’ve been cut off I’m surprised we’re still in the air.’

‘The Quinjet has a shitload of redundancies built in,’ Tony said, sounding as though he were trying to convince himself more than the rest of them. He seemed to be gripping the controls a little more tightly than usual. ‘Safety first. Also? I fucking hate magic.’

Steve swallowed. He was already uncomfortably aware that they were heading towards the Arctic Circle, and he really didn’t need the image of the fireplace-infested Quinjet faltering in its flight and crashing into the icy ocean. To distract himself he hastily turned his attention to Natasha, who was reading the crumpled mission report. As he watched, her eyebrow gave the very slightest twitch. Wordlessly, she handed to him.

***

 

 **Reporting agent:** Coulson, PJ  
 **Mission ID:** CH041  
 **Mission status:** Ongoing

**REQUEST IMMEDIATE BACKUP**

Continued intelligence gathering has revealed that the apparent Santa’s workshop is being used to manufacture a variety of weaponry and ammunition based on Stark Industries technology. We tentatively assume that this will be distributed globally via reindeer-driven sleigh over the period constituting Christmas Night throughout the world, with an aim of escalating global conflict.

We will attempt to disrupt both production and distribution while remaining undetected by hostile forces.

The whereabouts of Santa himself is as yet undetermined.

 

_Hey Tasha, what do you call Santa's little helpers?_

_Subordinate Clauses._

 

***

Mission objectives, Phil thought sadly, were easier said than done. As it turned out, not a minute after had Clint fired their report-loaded Nerf dart into a cloud of glittering fairy dust, everything went straight to hell.

‘Fuck,’ Clint said, peering down onto the workshop floor again. ‘That’s our elf. The one we interrogated.’

They’d left the captured elf tied up and unconscious under a heap of presents in a tiny, out-of-the-way cupboard. Really, once Natasha’s cognitive recalibration technique had worn off, they should have shut his mouth more permanently and pushed him out of a rubbish chute somewhere. Both of them could steel themselves to collateral damage, especially when the fate of the world was at stake and it was a question of one life against billions. But they’d glanced at each other, and at the elf with his pointy ears and pointier shoes, and Clint had wordlessly fetched sticky tape and ribbon. It had been pure squeamishness, and it had left them in serious trouble.

The elf was parade-ground stiff, reporting like a soldier. His words were inaudible in the din of the workshop, but the effect was obvious, and Phil could easily fill in the HYDRA leader’s _Find them! Kill them!_ dialogue. ‘They’ll be on high alert. Guards everywhere.’

‘Do we stick to the mission objectives?’

‘We don’t have much choice,’ Phil said. There was no guarantee that backup was on its way. It might be that they were all alone in this one.

‘If there is some kind of machine controlling the elves, they’ll be sending dozens more guards down to it.’

‘Yes,’ Phil said, ‘they will, won’t they?’ He smiled. It was time to break out the oldest trick in the book.

***

Clint’s standard arrows tended to leave noticeable bloodstains on even the blackest uniforms, but fortunately there were plenty of less lethal varieties available. As he had predicted, the pair of guards were surprised enough at being hit in the face by suction cups on sticks that they were easy meat for another man leaping out of a large fireplace and knocking them out with a poker.

They dressed quickly, checking each other over. Clint reluctantly stashed his bow and quiver in the back of the fireplace, leaving him with his SHIELD issue handgun, the Nerf gun and the bag of fairy dust tucked into his pants, and the guard’s pistol at his hip. Phil checked his own weapon, holstered it, and jammed the cap on his head. ‘How do I look?’

‘Good. I like you in black leather.’

Phil sighed. ‘Barton.’

‘You’ve got a smudge of soot on your face,’ Clint said, still grinning. He licked his thumb and reached out a hand towards Phil’s cheek. ‘You want me to get it for you?’

Automatically Phil’s hand snapped out and grabbed his wrist, holding him still to look him dead in the eye. ‘Agent Barton, if I hear anything out of your mouth in the next half hour except ‘Yes sir,’ and ‘Hail HYDRA,’ you’re going to be extremely sorry.’

Clint’s throat moved mesmerizingly as he swallowed. ‘Yes sir.’

***

 

‘We’ll be there in about an hour,’ Natasha said, settling herself down on the floor in front of the fire.

‘Good,’ Steve said. He pulled his gaze away from the flames. Staring at them seemed to help him think. ‘Any ideas on what we should do when we get there?’

‘If we can get Coulson and Barton on the comms we’ll have more to go on. If not, I’d suggest you and me for infiltration and intel. The heavy hitters can hang back until we’ve located our people and got the lie of the land.’

‘I don’t like hanging back,’ Tony protested.

‘Suck it up,’ Natasha told him, without turning her head.

‘So basically we play it by ear,’ Steve concluded. That meant there was very little to do for the rest of the trip. They’d checked their weapons and cold weather gear. They’d explained the concept of Santa and his sleigh to Thor, just in case he mistook reindeer for bilgesnipe and dealt with them accordingly. Now they could only sit and worry. ‘At least they’re together,’ he said.

‘Hmm?’ Natasha said. Actually, Tony and Bruce made slightly odd noises as well. 

‘Clint and Coulson. They’ll look after each other.’

‘Oh,’ Natasha said, raising her eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you meant something else.’

Steve flushed. He still hadn’t got used to people _talking_ about these things. It was like the men who cried on television, and the way his psychiatrists were telling him he should probably try it too. It made him uncomfortable. ‘Well… yes, that. I mean, but they’re…’ He paused and tried again. ‘They’re fond of each other, I know. But I didn’t think they were _together_.’

‘They’re not,’ Bruce put in. ‘Nobody knows why. It’s one of the mysteries of the universe.’

From the pilot’s chair, Tony glanced over his shoulder and made a face. ‘If it were up to me, they’d have fixed it already. Blame Pepper. She took away my intervention banner.’

‘Does it bother you?’ Natasha said. She sounded gentle and understanding. Steve took it as a warning sign.

‘No,’ he said hastily. ‘Well… no, not like that. It’s good, really good. I want people to be able to love each other. It’s just strange _talking_ about it. One more thing that’s different.’ He sighed, glancing at the others and then pitching his voice low under the engines so only she could hear. ‘Sometimes It doesn’t matter if it’s good different or bad different. It’s just another thing telling me I can’t go home again.’

She nodded apparently satisfied. ‘None of us can go home again,’ she said. ‘Except Tony. He’s made his own place to go back to. But that’s OK. He seems determined to take all of us with him.’

***

After a few hasty U-turns, Phil was fairly sure they’d located the area HYDRA was keenest on protecting. The squadron of marching guards were a definite clue, and while it seemed risky to tag on the end, nobody seemed to mind that the two of them were headed in the same direction. They hung back until the others had marched through the large wooden door, which had quite tasteful carvings of holly leaves on it. Then they marched forwards at the double.

‘Hail HYDRA!’ the nearest guard snapped out as they approached.

‘Hail HYDRA. Additional guards reporting,’ Phil said, putting on his best impression of jackbooted thug acting slightly embarrassed. ‘Our squad just went through.’

‘You’re late then.’

‘Yes sir. Sorry sir. Got turned around in all these little passages, sir.’

The guard sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘There’s always one idiot, isn’t there? Through there, then. Take up position by the machine.’

‘Yes sir,’ Clint put in. ‘Hail HYDRA.’

‘Hail HYDRA,’ the guard repeated absently, waving them on.

The room they entered was cavernous. Most of it seemed designed as a packaging station, and Phil had to stop and blink for a moment before he could quite comprehend what he was seeing. At the top of the packing line, a group of elves were loading suspiciously gun-shaped parcels into sacks. The sacks travelled down the conveyor belt, where ten or so of them were dropped neatly into another sack. When the new sack was full it continued down the belt, before being dropped into another sack. Then the process repeated. Repeatedly.

All of the sacks were the same size. Sitting innocently at the very bottom of the line was a final, simple sack just like all the others. As Phil watched, one of the previous sacks was tipped into it from above, and the attendant elf glanced at a gauge and nodded to her fellow. They manhandled the sack easily onto a trolley, and elf number two guided it away across the floor, another couple of dozen armed elves and several HYDRA agents falling into military step on either side.

A new sack was slotted into place at the bottom of the conveyor.

Phil dragged his eyes firmly away from the impossibility, even as his mind automatically did the math and came up with a staggering figure. And if there were four or five sacks on the sleigh, perhaps… but no, it did no good to think about it. What they needed was to _stop_ it. He turned his focus to the room’s second machine. It had mad scientist written in every over-the-top flashing light and looping wire. It was, Phil thought, the reason that Stark _didn’t_ fit into the category. His inventions, while showy, were at least neat and tidy. The particle accelerator was a notable exception, but Phil would accept a plea of temporary insanity.

This invention was a mess of struts, gigantic bolts, glowing coils that sent out showers of sparks, and glass balls filled with crackling lightning. It was well guarded. There were two HYDA goons stationed at each corner of it, each of them determinedly watching the entrances and occasionally flinching when an extra-large spark fizzed over their shoulder. More guards were positioning themselves round the room, on walkways and against the walls

Phil glanced at Clint and raised an eyebrow, hoping to imply ‘ _Fifty bucks says this is the thing we need to destroy._ ’ Clint made a slightly disconsolate face in return. Phil was rather worried to realise that he could interpret it perfectly as, ‘ _I want to blow that shit up but I don’t have an exploding arrow or any C4. Doesn’t life suck sometimes?’_

He really had known Clint far too long.

The exchange took just a fraction of a second. Then, as one man, they strode purposefully across the wide expanse of floor, skirting the machine, and out of the opposite door, past another guard who snapped them the ubiquitous straight-armed salute.

‘Hail HYDRA,’ Clint said, the picture of a man innocently intent on his job.

‘Hail HYDRA.’

They made it almost to the end of the corridor before someone yelled at them.

‘Run,’ Phil suggested.

‘Yes sir.’

***

They probably could have outrun the HYDRA guards quite easily. They hadn’t accounted for the swarms of elves.

‘Fuck,’ Clint gasped, collapsing against the wall of the janitor’s closet where they’d finally found refuge. ‘Those little green bastards,’ he said in a furious whisper. ‘One of them bit me on the ear.’

‘Really?’ Phil said. He did his best to sound dry, but it wasn’t easy. He was painfully aware that he was in the dark with a panting Clint in a very small space. ‘Have you lost any flesh?’

There as a wince as Clint poked at himself. ‘Nah, just blood. They’ve only got little teeth.’

‘I think you’ll probably survive.’

‘Gonna kiss it better for me?’ Clint asked, his voice suddenly a seductive purr.

‘No,’ Phil told him coldly, supressing the shiver that wanted to run up his spine at the sound. ‘And you’re going to _stop talking_ until we can be sure they’ve gone away.’ Surprisingly, Clint did shut up. Somehow, though, Phil could hear him pouting and rolled his eyes. ‘Make yourself useful. Hold this.’ He passed Clint a miniature torch. Sadly his mission report pad was in his discarded clothes, but a good agent made do with the resources at hand. Every single room in Santa’s workshop held some variation on the theme of wrapping paper and crayons.

***

 **Reporting agent:** Coulson, PJ  
 **Mission ID:** CH041  
 **Mission status:** Ongoing

**REQUEST IMMEDIATE BACKUP**

We have determined the location and nature of the elf brainwashing device. It is a large machine in a well-guarded packaging station, where the aforementioned weaponry is being placed into sacks for transportation. See attached sheet for a rough plan of the facility.

At least one sack of weaponry has been placed on Santa’s sleigh. We assume more remain to follow. However, the situation has now become time-critical.

***

The chimney poking out of the snowdrift looked a little odd, but no odder than the one that now emerged from the top of the Quinjet. Steve almost wished he’d stayed with the others so he could be there when Tony saw it.

‘Sounds like we’ve got here just in time,’ he said, handing the piece of pretty, spangled paper back to Natasha. ‘But what on earth is that purple thing on the plan supposed to be, where it’s marked with an X?’

‘It’s an elf chewing on a human ear,’ Natasha said unconcernedly. ‘Clint’s contribution.’

‘Oh.’

She started off through the snow, a trifle awkwardly. Even Natasha couldn’t make a white snow-camouflage parka look elegant. ‘This way.’

***  
Superspies though they were, right now Clint and Phil were reduced to peeping through the crack in a door. The corridors were teaming with busy elves, as well as troops of guards on the hunt for the intruders. Since they’d sent the last report they’d managed barely more than a quick scurry from room to room. Now, peering cautiously out of this one, they were confronted with the sight of yet another marching battalion of elves, yet another trolley, and yet another sack.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ Clint asked.

Phil gave the sack an irritated glare, as though if he disapproved of it enough he could wish it out of existence. ‘Do you think it’s enough weaponry to wage several world wars?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then yes, it’s what you think it is.’ It almost made him want to laugh. Of course he knew that those weapons were a threat to world peace and had to be stopped at all costs. But equally, he knew that they were going to be loaded onto a flying sleigh and hauled into the air by Donner, Blitzen and Rudolph, or whatever their reindeery equivalents were in real life. 

In _real life_.

Oh well. He was paid the big bucks to deal with this kind of thing.

‘This is the last one?’ the current HYDRA guard snapped to his underling.

‘Yes sir.’

‘Good work.’ The lieutenant tapped his communicator. ‘This is Meyer. Ready the teams.’

‘Last one,’ Clint echoed. ‘Phil, they’re nearly ready to go.’

Phil pursed his lips, thinking. ‘Even if we stopped that one sack, they have plenty more. Besides, I don’t think we _could_ stop it.’

‘Those elves are pretty badass,’ Clint said grimly. ‘And there’s a shitload of them.’

Too many. While they could pick off a fair few, the rest of them would break out the guns before the first set had hit the ground. A direct assault wasn’t going to work. Phil’s eyes trailed the marching group, seeing blank faces and little green-clad legs marching creepily in step. ‘Lots of elves,’ he said, ‘and not a lot of HYDRA.’

Clint made a rueful face. ‘Yeah. You think they could take down those guards if they weren’t being mind controlled?’

‘Possibly,’ Phil admitted.

‘So what do we do? Go back to that production line room, guns blazing, and see if we can blast the machine apart before someone shoots us?’

‘It does look like the best option.’ Not a good option, obviously. One that was very likely to get them killed. But at least it had more chance of success than an assault on the sack. And fewer tiny green-clad casualties.

Phil sighed inwardly. Of all the missions they could die on, this was the most embarrassing. Squaring his shoulders, he checked his weapons. ‘There’s no unexposed way to the machine. We’ll have to get past a set of guards whatever we do, and the others will be on us as soon as we start shooting. I’ll cover you once we’ve got a clear sight line. If you can hit something critical it might be enough.’

There was a small moment of quiet between them. Then Clint said, ‘I wish I had my bow.’

‘I know,’ Phil said. Guns were effective, but when Clint held a bow it seemed as though he was cradling a little piece of his soul in his hands. He didn’t look complete without it.

‘Yeah,’ Clint said. ‘You do.’ His smile was real, if sad. ‘Sir… In case I don’t get to say it later: Happy Christmas.’

‘Happy Christmas, Clint,’ Phil said. He might as well use Clint’s real name, just this once.

They stood there, gazes locked. For a moment, Phil thought Clint was about to say something else. Then, abruptly, Clint glanced away. ‘Come on, sir,’ he said. ‘We should go.’

Behind them someone gave a tiny groan of disgust. ‘You two are sickening,’ Natasha said. ‘Clint, if you can’t say it at a time like this you’re even more pathetic than I thought. Next time you come sobbing to me about your _feelings_ I’ll tell you to get the fuck over yourself.’ 

She was standing by the fireplace, with a few smears of soot and a deeply exasperated expression on her face. Phil had never felt more relieved to see her, and the sight of the Captain tumbling out of the fireplace after her was possibly even more welcome. Then he realised what she’d actually said and stared at her. Then at Clint. It couldn’t be. _Could_ it?

‘Tasha!’ Clint said. His face flushed guiltily pink. ‘Sir, I… dammit, Tasha.’

No, Phil realised. A chill spread through him. It was a joke. The two of them had dozens of private jokes. This was just another one of their games, Natasha playing along with Clint’s flirting. But all of a sudden Clint wasn’t amused by it any more. And Phil could think of only one reason for that. He felt sick, mortified.

Clint knew. Clint had seen it in his eyes, just now. He knew how Phil felt. And he’d never been a cruel man. A prankster, yes, but he didn’t aim for the weak spots. There wouldn’t be any more flirtation now. Only pity.

‘Stop whining,’ Natasha told Clint, all unaware of the change. ‘I’ve told you he feels the same way.’ Tapping her earpiece, she reported, ‘Package located. Feel free to raise some hell.’

***

To Steve, flinging his shield into a mass of HYDRA guards, the destruction around him was upsetting. This was Santa’s workshop. It shouldn’t have its walls blown in by repulsor blasts. At least the Hulk was causing less damage than usual. He seemed charmed by the elves. ‘GREEN,’ he said happily, scooping up handfuls of them, heedless of the hails of bullets they rained on him.

 _’We’ve found the brainwashing thing,’_ Tony’s voice said in his ear. _‘Piece of trash.’_

‘Destroy it,’ Steve ordered.

_‘Way ahead of you, Tiny Tim.’_

Suddenly the volume of gunfire dropped. The elf in front of Steve swayed, blinked, and looked around as though she was waking up from a dream. ‘What the fudge?’ she said. ‘That… was that… was I…?’ She looked down at the gun in her hand, then up at Steve, and her mouth twisted into a snarl. ‘Oh _heck_ no. Where are those black-suited sons of badgers? I’m going to jingle their tinkling _bells_.’

A roar of savage assent came from all around.

‘The elves are free,’ Steve reported down the comms. ‘And they’re kind of pissed.’

The ensuing battle was short, bloody, and almost entirely one-sided. Even the Hulk seemed unsettled by the level of violence. ‘GREEN,’ he said again, thoughtfully, though by then quite a lot of the elves were spattered with red.

Finally they’d cut down the HYDRA forces to a few remaining men. Steve caught sight of a General’s insignia on one as he sprinted round the corner, and flung himself into pursuit, coming face to face with the barred doors of what must be their last stronghold, a couple of well-fortified rooms off to the back of the workshop. 

The elf he had seen earlier tapped his elbow for attention. ‘That’s the stables through there,’ she said urgently. ‘We’ve got to stop him. He’s still got time to harness the reindeer.’

‘We’ll stop him,’ Steve promised, readying himself for action. He was all for breaking down doors and storming in, firing wildly. It was a favourite strategy. He touched his com. ‘Avengers, Assemble! Just a couple more fish to catch.’

As the team fell into place behind him he stepped aside, allowing Tony to smash a metal fist into the door, slamming it open. Inside, the room appeared empty. They could see out into the stables at the other end, with the laden sleigh gleaming and pristine in the moonlight. And then, just in the pause that precedes frantic action, a man in bright, cheerful red stepped out of a side door.

‘Santa!’ every elf yelled joyfully, just for a second, before stillness spread across their ranks. They’d seen the thing that had made Steve’s blood run cold the very first instant – the black glint of a gun barrel pressed up against the fur collar of the famous red suit. The HYDRA general, almost completely hidden behind Santa’s expansive bulk, gave a cackle of terrified laughter as he backed towards the sleigh, shifting the gun until it was no doubt pressed against Santa’s spine. ‘Stay where you are!’ Hunkering down so nothing of him was visible, he crowed, ‘We will prevail! Hail HYDRA!’

‘Santa,’ wailed a small, tearful elf with a sub-machine gun, taking an involuntary step forwards. 

‘Stop!’ The general howled. ‘Stop or I kill Santa Claus!’ 

***

Phil glanced along the line of Avengers and read the same message in each of their eyes. There was no way any of them could take the man down without risking Santa’s life. A repulsor blast was no use. Steve’s shield couldn’t exactly be thrown gently. And lightning wasn’t discriminating about its targets. ‘Barton,’ he breathed, ‘do you have a shot?’

At his side Clint shifted fractionally on his feet as his eyes traced the path the general would take to reach the sleigh. ‘No sir.’ 

There were only seconds left. Phil looked from Santa’s calm, wise eyes to the terrified elves, and steeled himself for the decision. A night of lethal presents that could start a dozen wars, or the death of Santa Claus? He could see the message in those eyes, and he had no doubt which one Santa himself would choose.

Phil was the one who made tough calls. One life or millions. He’d done it before. Silently apologising to every generation of children to come, he opened his mouth to give the order. But in the moment before the first word left his tongue, he felt, rather than saw, Clint tense beside him.

‘Wait,’ Clint murmured. ‘I think I’ve got that shot after all.’

The general was still moving. There was no time for questions. No time for anything.

‘Call it,’ Clint hissed urgently.

Phil didn’t even have to think. It looked impossible, but if Clint said he had the shot, he had the shot. ‘Take it.’

In the space of a moment, Clint had tossed a handful of fairy dust into the air and fired. As ever, he was a study of economic movement and lightning speed, but Phil caught the briefest hesitation as he aimed, an intense concentration.

The bullet vanished into the dust. The HYDRA general took another step back, dragging Santa with him.

Before the reverberation of the shot had died away there was a short, sharp sound, like the crack of a whip. As Phil watched in astonishment a cloud of blood sprayed sideways out from behind Santa to splatter against the candy-striped wall. The general’s body hit the floor with a thud of dull finality.

For a brief moment, silence fell.

‘Interesting shooting,’ Phil said, amid the slight sound of a hundred elf mouths dropping open. ‘Tell me, was there always a fireplace over there?’

Clint followed his pointing finger to the side wall, the start of the bullet’s unexpected second trajectory. ‘Huh,’ he said. ‘Weird. I thought it would just reappear out of another sparkle of dust or something.’ He looked musingly at the fireplace, the mantle of which was home to a black leather stocking with eight little tentacles protruding from the toe. He turned to Steve. ‘Hey, Cap, has that been happening every time?’

***

‘And what would you like for Christmas?’ Santa asked. He was seated on a bench in in the stables, with half a dozen elves fussing over him and two reindeer nuzzling fondly at his hair, seemingly none the worse for the day’s adventures.

It was rare to see Natasha at a loss for words. Silent and glowering, yes, or speaking in biting monosyllables, but not plain confused. In fact, even in the heat of battle Steve couldn’t remember her ever being less than composed.

‘Uh…’ she said eventually, ‘I thought you had a naughty list.’

‘He makes a new one every year,’ Clint said seriously, coming up behind her. He paused, then smiled roughly and slid his arms round her. He had special permission to hug her, Steve knew. Anyone else who tried it would be risking a knife in the eye.

‘And I check it twice,’ Santa said, with a warm _ho ho ho!_ laugh. ‘But tell me anyway, Natasha. Have you been good _this_ year?’

Natasha glanced sideways at Steve. To his astonishment, there was a kind of entreaty in her gaze. He gave her an encouraging nod and a smile.

‘Possibly better than my average,’ she said eventually.

‘Well, let’s see if we can find you a present that’s just right.’

Steve grinned, and then jerked his head at Clint, because somehow he felt that what Natasha wanted for Christmas should stay between Natasha and Santa. Clint nodded and disengaged himself, and the two of them strolled away, Steve leading the way to where Agent Coulson was working with a couple of senior elves to supervise the clean-up of the workshop.

Coulson’s head snapped up as they approached. ‘Captain,’ he said, nodding a greeting. ‘Barton.’

‘Sir,’ Clint said expressionlessly. Despite the tone, Steve couldn’t help noticing that his ears had flushed pink. He thought back to that uncomfortable moment when he and Natasha had first located the two agents. He hadn’t quite understood it then, and he didn’t now, but whatever the problem was, it only seemed to have grown.

‘How’s the clean-up going?’ he asked, mostly to break the tension.

‘We’re doing well. With extra manpower from the Hulk, we’re getting the presents shifted and packed in record time. Stark has apparently “cranked the sacking machine up to eleven”. It looks like Christmas will be back on track after all.’ Coulson smiled, pausing to give a brief order to an elf holding up a manifest for his inspection. It was, Steve suspected, an excuse to look anywhere but at Clint.

The awkwardness was tangible. Just when Steve was starting to blush himself, Tony caused a welcome diversion. ‘Yo, Barton,’ he yelled across the room, ‘you got any of that fairy dust left?’

Clint grabbed onto the escape route with both hands. ‘Yeah,’ he called, starting over towards Tony. ‘Why?’

Tony’s grin was altogether lacking in Christmas charity. ‘I was thinking I should send some holiday wishes to my good friend Reed.’

As Clint walked away, Coulson’s eyes followed him. Steve looked at him worriedly. ‘Um. Phil?’ he said. ‘About you and Clint. I heard what Natasha said, when we came out of the fireplace.’

Coulson gave a tight smile. ‘Captain, it was a joke. Not especially funny, but I’ve long ago given up on understanding Natasha and Clint’s particular brand of humour. ’

Steve swallowed. You didn’t talk about this kind of thing, but you should. ‘I don’t think it was a joke,’ he said determinedly. ‘Clint… well, everyone knows how he feels about you.’

‘Clint’s a showman,’ Coulson said softly. ‘He likes to act a part. He always has. It’s over now, though. I think he’ll behave from now on.’

Steve took a deep breath. He could do this. ‘But you love him, don’t you?’ he asked.

Coulson didn’t say anything aloud. His face did it for him, and it was so sad that Steve couldn’t find anything else to say. For a while they watched in silence as Clint and Tony scribbled in a Christmas card, with their heads together like children plotting mischief. Finally, Steve sighed and stepped away. ‘I doubt I’ll succeed,’ he said to Coulson, ‘but I really ought to try and stop them from infesting the Baxter Building with fireplaces.’

‘Good luck,’ Coulson said distractedly.

‘Thanks.’ Steve nodded goodbye to him, then paused. Perhaps, if he couldn’t help, there was someone who could. ‘Oh, Phil?’ he said. ‘When you’ve got a minute I think Santa wants to talk to you.’

***

In the end they all had their little private moments with Santa. Some of them came away thoughtful, others cradling some small, secret thing. Last was Thor’s turn, and typically for Thor it was far too loud a conversation to be kept private. When he strode across to Santa, the rest of them were drawn along with him.

‘In Asgard,’ Thor declaimed cheerfully, ‘at the winter festival there is a great hunt for all to join. My father rides his mighty steed Sleipnir across the skies until dawn.’ He gripped Santa eagerly by the shoulder, radiating enthusiasm. ‘Great one, I ask a boon. I would ride with you tonight!’

‘You are welcome, Thor,’ Santa answered, laughing. ‘All of you are welcome.’

***

By the time they tumbled out of the sleigh or off the backs of reindeer and onto the roof of the tower Phil had lost count of how many hours he’d been awake, but it didn’t seem to matter. He was riding a high of sweeping stars and glowing city lights spread out below as they rushed across the night. There was no possible way to describe the flight, except to say that you really could visit every home on the planet in a night without running out of time and, even more surprisingly, without getting bored.

But now it was over. Now Phil came back down to earth with a bump.

The team waved goodbye to Santa with grins and friendly shouts, and a strange, shy wave from Natasha that Phil just caught out of the corner of his eye. It was Christmas morning. Pepper Potts, in pyjama pants, slippers, and one of Tony’s t-shirts, was running across the rooftop to meet them, joy and relief and exasperation plain on her face. Inside the tower, Phil knew, was a tree and presents, and a five star chef and his staff being paid an obscene amount of money for roast turkey and ham and dozens other festive dishes. There would be food and drink, Christmas music and old movies. And there would be Clint, laughing and enthusiastic and determinedly avoiding Phil’s eyes.

Phil knew the feeling of being watched, and he was being watched right now, as they went into the tower. Without looking he knew that little conspiratorial glances were shooting between Steve, Tony and Pepper. He had become the subject of gossip among superheroes and CEOs. _Captain America_ knew about Phil’s hopeless, pining, unrequited love affair with his asset. They probably wanted to help, somehow. To make him feel less bad about it.

The only thing that would make him feel less bad would be if Clint could look him in the eye again. Phil would have to take him aside and explain that, whatever feelings might have been revealed, it needn’t affect their working relationship. Things could go on just as before.

And if not… well, there were a lot of other assignments for an agent of his standing.

He shook himself. There was no point in being morose. He had a lot to be thankful for. All of them were safe, and Christmas was saved, and Santa was alive and well. What more could he ask?

And, on top of all that, like the rest of them, he had a gift. Or not a gift, exactly. The promise of one. A thank you present. Phil didn’t need to be thanked, but Santa had insisted. ‘I’ll give it to you later,’ he had said. ‘You’ll know it’s from me.’

***

Once the turkey had been eaten and the presents opened Phil took his courage in both hands. Despite the guns and the elves and HYDRA, this was probably the most frightening part of his Christmas.

‘Barton,’ he said, stepping into Clint’s path from the dining area to the lounge, ‘do you have a moment?’

Clint’s steps faltered. ‘Not just now, sir,’ he said. ‘Got a hot date with George Bailey.’ He waved at the TV screen, where JARVIS had _It’s A Wonderful Life_ ready to run.

‘It won’t take long.’

‘Come on. You can’t make me do paperwork today.’ Clint turned determinedly away.

He obviously wanted to pretend it never happened. Phil couldn’t push it further. It would make a scene, which would only embarrass them both. He stood there, uncertain of his next move.

In that pause, while he struggled for a solution, something drifted down past his face. It was tiny, no more than a dust mote, but glittering where it caught the light, as though it was made of some bright metal. Phil frowned, brushing it aside, but another took its place. Suddenly there were more of them, thickening until they were spiralling and dancing all around him. He tilted his head up, following the swirl to its source.

There on the ceiling was a sprig of mistletoe. It glittered like the dust, and it hung there without being pinned, as though it was growing directly out of the plasterwork. A sprig of magical mistletoe. He knew who it was from. 

Suddenly, looking at Clint’s tense shoulders, a lot of things became clear to Phil. His heart thumped hard beneath the scar on his chest, filling with a sudden, terrifying hope.

‘Barton,’ he said again.

Clint glanced back. For a second, his eyes met Phil’s, and Phil could see the plea in them. This time, he knew what it meant. How could he have not seen any of this before? _Don’t do this. Don’t let me down easy today. Wait until tomorrow. It’s Christmas._

‘Clint,’ Phil said. ‘Put down the popcorn.’

It was the second time in as many days that he’d used that name. Not _Barton_ , the sharp-eyed, wisecracking asset, whose value lay in his perfect aim, his combat training and his ruthlessness. Clint, whose value was impossible to assess, and lay in everything he was.

Clint stiffened, his eyes slightly wide. ‘What is it, sir?’ he said cautiously.

Hoping he didn’t look as uncertain as he felt, Phil let a smile creep across his face as he jerked his thumb upwards. ‘Mistletoe,’ he said.

Clint stared. Phil could see the flush spreading across his cheeks. For a moment the uncertainty was almost overwhelming. If he was wrong, there would be no going back. No pretending that things could go on as before. But it was only momentary. Santa had given him the mistletoe, and if anyone could hand out a Christmas miracle it was him.

On the sidelines, all of the Avengers were watching. All of them appeared to be waiting, with varying degrees of patience. Stark made an expansive _get on with it_ motion.

Clint took a step forwards, then another, until he was directly under the little green sprig. He was smiling back at Phil. Really smiling, a wide, delighted grin that made Phil’s heart stutter in his chest. ‘So?’ he asked.

‘ _Mistletoe_ ,’ Phil said, and kissed him.


End file.
